


Le Fantôme

by Iolanfg



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: BAMF Greg Lestrade, Established Mycroft Holmes/Greg Lestrade, M/M, Protective Greg, Protective Mycroft
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-12-15
Updated: 2019-12-15
Packaged: 2021-02-26 06:35:25
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 1,450
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21809023
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Iolanfg/pseuds/Iolanfg
Summary: The fog hid the moon. The asphalt was frozen and the icy wind was blowing hard. Some distant lightning announced the imminent storm approaching. The street was deserted. "It's a good night to stay at home. It's a good night to die."Sherlock finds out a few things about Mycroft and Greg.
Relationships: Mycroft Holmes/Greg Lestrade
Comments: 1
Kudos: 15





	1. Paris. 1994.

**Author's Note:**

> Everything belongs to Doyle, Gattis, and Moffat.  
> English is not my first language, this was translated with the help of a translator. I regret any mistake.  
> Thank you for reading.

The fog hid the moon. The asphalt was frozen and the icy wind was blowing hard. Some distant lightning announced the imminent storm approaching. The street was deserted. "It's a good night to stay at home. It's a good night to die."  
Leaning against the wall, the man took one last puff of his cigarette and threw the cigarette butt to the ground, without taking his eyes off the only illuminated window in the building in front of him, on the top floor. Of course the other man would still be awake, he thought, cursing his chronic insomnia. He would have preferred to have found him asleep. "He would have preferred never to find him."  
Exhaling deeply he discarded that last thought. This was just another job, and he was a professional. He could no longer avoid the inevitable. His boss began to get impatient, it became more and more difficult to keep up the lies, and after all, if he didn't, they would soon send another one in his place.  
He put his hands in the pockets of the long dark coat that protected him from the intense cold of the dawn, clenching his teeth, and forced himself to cross the deserted street.  
It was not difficult for him to switch off the alarm at the side entrance of the building and enter without being seen by the guards. Being invisible was what he did best. And in his profession, to go unnoticed was fundamental. He had been invisible since the day he was born, that's why he was so good at his job.  
He advanced in the dark through the corridor, attentive to any sound, to any change in the shadows. Of course, he could have been invited. Not him, of course. But "Armand" if.  
Armand would have been greeted with a warm smile and a soft kiss on the lips. As on so many other occasions, the younger man would have made him come in and make himself comfortable, as he asked him, in perfect French, what his day had been like, his bare feet would have moved lightly on the fluffy white carpet, going to the bar cabinet to pour him a drink, and at that moment... It would have been very easy.  
But "Armand" could never have done something like that. He could not have stood the wounded and betrayed look of the man who had trusted him.  
He clenched his teeth, remembering that he was not Armand. Armand didn't even exist. Not that night.  
That night he was Le Fantôme. And he had a job to do.  
Le Fantôme. He smiled without humor at the name given to him by the French security forces. It really was a good name for him, he thought as he forced the door of the entrance to the apartment. The ghost. A wandering spirit with no name, no past, no future. A face that no one ever remembered, without a family or friends who missed him. An invisible being, insubstantial, empty that nobody noticed and that never wanted to be noticed.  
"But he saw you. He saw through you..." said a voice inside him. He bit his lips, trying to silence his thoughts, trying not to think of those blue-grey eyes that stared at him, as if they could go through him and read his soul, and then give him a smile full of affection and understanding. No, it was useless to think about what could have been if they were other people and their circumstances were different. The game was over. It wasn't just for his work, it was for his own survival that he was here tonight, he remembered. It was only a matter of time before the man discovered that he was the one he was chasing.

He sneaked into the apartment, completely dark except for the light filtering through the half-open bedroom door.  
He took the revolver out of his pocket, squeezing it in his hand, as he stopped silently at the threshold, watching the young man almost without daring to breathe.

Sitting on the couch, head resting on the back and eyes closed, feet crossed at the end of long legs extended and hands with long, thin fingers on the armrests, the man seemed asleep, relaxed and at peace. The spitting image of tranquillity.  
Outside the tempest was unleashed, a roaring thunder broke his concentration, making him look for a second at the window. When he looked back at his victim, the man stared at him with a slight smile on his lips.  
\- You have taken your time. I was beginning to think you wouldn't come.- The blue eyes recurred to his body, pausing briefly at the gun in his hand.- Good. I guess Armand won't be coming tonight then. Too bad. I liked him. Even though I wanted to meet you at last, my elusive Ghost.

The man at the door tensed, slowly entering the room, stunned by the unexpected reaction of the youngest, looking for the first time at the revolver resting on his lap. Suddenly, reality shook him.  
\- You... knew. All this time... you knew, and yet... Why?  
With a joyless smile, the young man stood up slowly, gun in hand, standing in front of him. Another strong thunder made the crystals of the room vibrate. Unconsciously, the man lifted the weapon, aiming for the tallest man, who was still looking at it without taking his eyes off it, the revolver still resting at his side.  
\- It is a good night to die, do you not think?  
The hand holding the revolver shook slightly as the man swallowed saliva listening to what had been his thoughts a moment before. Yes, it was a good night to die. What was no longer so clear was which of the two would die that night.


	2. 2019. London

2019\. London  
Sherlock ignored John's umpteenth snort as he feverishly searched the, until recently, tidy office of his older brother, as desperate to find evidence as he wished he was wrong.  
The case had been a direct commission from a senior MI5 official. A resentful and power-hungry bureaucrat more interested in escalating positions by destroying those who stood in his way than in doing justice. Under normal circumstances, he would have declined to work for the government unless his brother requested it.  
It was a sort of tacit agreement between the two who had reached after the Magnussem debacle: Mycroft would not solve murders simply by looking at crime scene photographs and Sherlock would not get involved in government or espionage affairs unless Mycroft asked him to.  
But this case had certain personal implications.  
And although his client, Lord Stoner, had been killed just a couple of days before, it was not one of them, if it was a clear indication that he was on the right track.  
After three weeks of painstaking work, his investigation had led him to an unexpected and by no means desired conclusion, and, for the first time, the detective did not know what to do, struggling between pride in having achieved the impossible, again, perplexity at his own discoveries and a certain feeling of superiority for the information obtained.  
On the other hand, discovering the criminal and being able to bring him to justice were two different things...  
Without a doubt, the detective advisor needed advice. Asking Mycroft was unthinkable and John... He would simply mock him, giving him a sermon full of false morals with his condescending tone. Too much animosity.  
No, he needed someone fair and just. He needed a the man he could hear at that moment crossing the door of the mansion to the and calling out to them.  
\- At last you appear, Lestrade! In the office!  
The DCI Lestrade snorted, stopping at the threshold, looking at both of them with obvious annoyance.  
\- I've just finished my shift, how did I let you know the fifteen times you've written to me. What are we doing here, Sherlock?  
The detective gave him a mocking glance as he spun around on himself, waving his coat around, and began to force the drawers of the desk. The DCI looked at John Watson, who simply shook his head.  
\- He wouldn't tell me anything. He's been acting strangely since that damn case started.  
\- We're here to catch a murderer, of course. - he said triumphantly as he pulled a dossier out of the inside pocket of his coat and dropped it on the table.  
John and Greg looked at him, confused.  
\- Is there a murderer in your brother's house?  
Sherlock looked at him, with the same expression a child would have on Christmas morning.  
-Come on, John, keep up, my brother is the murderer!


End file.
